Skin Deep
by Philote
Summary: He didn’t let these things get to him, he just shrugged them off and moved on. So he didn’t understand why he couldn’t seem to let this go. Epilogue for “Skin.”


**Skin-deep**

By Philote

Rating: PG (K+)

Summary: He didn't let these things get to him; he just shrugged them off and moved on. So he didn't understand why he couldn't seem to let this go. Epilogue for "Skin."

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of _Supernatural_ do not belong to me. I make no money from this story. Please don't sue.

Author's Note: This is my first posted story in this fandom. I have a couple of longer _Supernatural_ stories in the works, but this one just begged to be written after "Skin." Feedback is appreciated!

oOo

They hit the ground hard, but the body beneath him shielded him from the impact as well as the shattering table. He pushed himself up onto his knees, staring down into the face below him.

He had countless memories of that face. Memories that reminded him how much he was supposed to love this person.

He was overcome with hate, and a blinding desire to hurt.

His hand found their way to the throat, and he squeezed. The soft flesh gave easily beneath his fingers, and he felt a rush at the power the action afforded him. He kept squeezing.

The open eyes beseeched him. They still held the resolve and anger that had been present a few moments before, but now there was a touch of fear there as well. He squeezed harder, and the fear increased.

The hands swatting at him stung at first. But they couldn't find purchase, and soon they were doing little more than useless tapping. The choking as he struggled for breath made him seem all the weaker. The more strength that drained from the boy, the more he felt. So he just kept squeezing.

Then Sam's eyes finally slipped shut, and the choking sounds slowly ceased.

And Dean snapped into awareness, breathing harshly as he blinked into the darkness.

It had been a week since he'd killed the shapeshifter. They'd hung around St. Louis for a few days, holed up in the hotel room, waiting until Dean had been considered dead enough that he could risk leaving seclusion.

The nightmares had started that first night. Then they had followed him out of town and down the highway. And they seemed to have no intention of going away.

He was well-practiced at this. He didn't let these things get to him; he just shrugged them off and moved on. So he didn't understand why he couldn't seem to let this go. And he really didn't understand why his dreams insisted on taking _that_ point of view.

A slight noise from the dingy room's other bed drew his attention. He shifted to squint in the darkness, soon seeing Sam's head toss once on the pillow, a slight sound of distress escaping his throat.

It looked like Sammy was having a nightmare of his own. What a pair they made.

At first, he'd tried to wake Sam at the first sign of the nightmares. Protective instincts wouldn't let him just lie there and listen to his brother's distress. But when it seemed that things weren't getting any better, he forced himself to take a different approach, thinking that perhaps the dreams needed to play out. Besides, Sam had to get some sleep. And things had seemed to be looking up—this was the first nightmare he'd witnessed in over a week.

And so he lay there now, letting the familiar sounds remind him that Sam was still there with him. It was oddly, disturbingly soothing.

When the sounds changed slightly some time later, suddenly sounding as if Sam was choking, he thought he'd drifted back into his nightmares.

He jerked upright a moment later when he realized he wasn't asleep.

One step and a small leap brought him onto the side of his brother's bed. "Sammy?" Sam was still asleep, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids and his body tense as he struggled for breath.

Dean grasped him by the upper arms, shaking him. Sam's breath caught and became even more erratic. Dean shook him harder, called to him again, and finally resorted to slapping him lightly.

Sam's eyes flew open at that, and Dean was taken aback by the fear that was so plain there. Then Sam jerked away from him, and he was unprepared as he was abruptly grabbed and flung to the other side of the bed.

He landed on his back, and Sam was on top of him in a heartbeat. "Sam—" he started, but was cut off by a fist slamming into his mouth.

The blow stunned him for a second, enough that when he took advantage of Sam's drawn-back fist to flip them once more, he forgot that they were on the edge of the bed.

The impact with the rough, thin carpet jarred _him_—and Sam had broken his fall. Dean grimaced, not wanting to think about what that must have felt like on still-healing injuries…though Sam's grunt of pain gave him a pretty good clue.

Still, the pain wasn't enough to make him stop fighting. But Dean recovered more quickly, grabbing a wrist in each hand and pinning them beside his brother's head. "Sam, stop! I'm not gonna hurt you! Calm down."

And, when Sam's eyes finally settled on his, he couldn't help adding softly, "It's me."

Sam stared at him for a moment before finally going limp. He shut his eyes, and swallowed hard. "Oh, God. Dean…"

Once he was sure that Sam was firmly in the present, Dean slowly shifted off of him. He sat down hard, fingering his lip. He reached up to pull the curtains open a bit, enough that the light of the near-full moon allowed him to see the blood on his fingers.

He wiped it off on his shirt, trying to ignore the pain. Then he reached to help Sam sit up, but hesitated with his hands halfway there. He wasn't sure if his touch would be welcome at the moment.

Sam solved that for him by grabbing his hovering hand, using it for leverage to pull himself up. He shifted to lean against the bed, breathing hard for a moment before he looked to Dean. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Dean shrugged off the apology. "Hey, I'm just grateful you don't sleep with a blade under your pillow."

Sam snorted softly in agreement, then leaned his head back against the mattress. Dean shifted to mirror the position at his side, taking the opportunity to study him.

Sam seemed to sense his scrutiny, and looked over at him. The still-healing bruise on his cheek stood out starkly against pale skin in the moonlight. Dean looked away, and sighed. "I think we need to talk about this," he admitted reluctantly.

"About what?"

Dean returned his gaze to his brother, then decided to cut to the chase. "I don't want you to be afraid of me."

Sam seemed surprised. "I'm not," he denied.

Dean just stared at him incredulously, his tongue poking at the sore spot on his lip.

"Dean, I was still half asleep. I thought I was back at Becky's house. Other than just now, have I seemed afraid of you?"

Dean considered him. Sam really had been handling this incredibly well. Until this little incident, Dean hadn't seen one hint that his brother was uncomfortable with him. He'd allowed Dean to treat his injuries without so much as a flinch. He hadn't balked at the near-claustrophobic quarters they'd been forced to share in the following days. In fact, he had been unusually easy-going. It was almost like it used to be—before four years of college were between them; before Jessica's death had forever changed Sam.

"No," he finally admitted. "But if you're having nightmares, then something's not right. And don't even try to tell me that one was about Jess."

Sam winced, but looked thoughtful. "You think I'm repressing something, and my subconscious is trying to get my attention?"

Dean stared for a beat. "Sure, college boy, if you want to put it all proper-like."

Sam granted him a ghost of a smile. Then he sat back, shifting his gaze out the window, as if Dean would somehow forget the conversation he was attempting to have.

Dean allowed him a moment's illusion. Then he insisted, "So?"

"So what?" Sam asked innocently.

Dean shook his head. "And people think you're the smart one. Talk to me!"

"How come when you're upset you see no reason to talk about it, but you don't want me to keep anything in?"

Dean opened his mouth to retort, shut it, and then opened it again. "What?"

"What, you think I've missed the nightmares? Every night this week, Dean. Every night since it happened. And then in the morning, you act like everything's normal."

Maybe Sam was the smart one. Dean blew past the observations about him. "You're still not sleeping," he accused, and wondered how he'd missed it. He had thought things were finally getting better, that Sam was finally starting to forgive himself. Apparently, Sam was just getting better at hiding it.

Sam rolled his eyes and leaned his head back again. "Not the point."

Dean threw up his hands. "Whatever!" He was beginning to think that was a battle he'd never win.

He sighed, calming himself slightly. Then he finally just asked what he wanted to know; what had really been bothering him during all these dark, wakeful hours. "What happened while you were alone with that thing?"

Sam gave him a furtive glance, then looked back to the window with a decidedly false casualness. He shrugged. "Nothing, really. You saw the worst of it."

"I would hope so. But there's still lots of unaccounted for time there, Sammy."

"Sam," came the testy reply. And with his calm broken, he finally answered, "It knocked me unconscious—twice. Tied me up. Twice. And it said some stuff. That's all."

"What kind of stuff?"

Sam ignored the question. "You know, I had a chance to kill it."

No, Dean hadn't known. Sam hadn't told him anything about it. "And you didn't because…"

He regretted the words when Sam's frustrated look was mixed with a bit of hurt. "Because I really don't want killing you on my conscience!" he snapped defensively. He then reined it in quickly, and looked almost contrite as he continued, "I knew almost immediately that it wasn't you. It knew all the right answers; it said the right things. But something just felt…off. Still, I couldn't be sure…so I couldn't shoot."

"Okay. I should probably yell at you for that, but in case it really is me next time, I think I'll just shut up."

Sam gave him a wide-eyed look. "Next time?"

Dean just shook his head. He knew avoidance when he saw it. "Tell me what it said, Sam."

Sam shrugged uncomfortably. Finally, he volunteered, "It said I should appreciate you more."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Hey, maybe the thing wasn't all bad after all."

Sam shot him a look. "He liked being you."

"Well, yeah," Dean stated, as if that was a foregone conclusion.

Sam rolled his eyes, but went silent on him again.

"Sam." He sought out eye contact, and held it. "Whatever it is that you're trying so hard not to tell me? Spill."

Sam's eyes remained on his, apparently reading his resolve. Then there was a smile that didn't touch his eyes, and went away as quickly as it came. "You know, all its other victims thought it was their loved one. I knew better…but it still liked taunting me."

Dean waited, hoping Sam would elaborate. But patience was really not one of Dean's virtues. After a moment he prompted, "With what?"

Sam met his eyes again, just for a second. "He said you had a lot of issues with me. That you resent me…for leaving, for going after my own life, for sticking you with all the responsibility..."

Dean froze.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting. Somehow, it wasn't this. Now Sam was looking at him, and he was the one who had to look away.

What was he supposed to say? Yes, Sammy, I hated you for leaving. I spent my entire childhood taking care of you; you're the only one I've ever let myself get attached to, and you walked out like none of it mattered. I hoped you'd be miserable at college. I hoped you'd end up feeling alone and empty, so you'd come back.

Yeah. The truth was certainly not a viable option.

Sam took his silence as some sort of answer. His expression was difficult to read as he looked out at the moon, and changed the subject. "What are you dreaming about?"

Dean needed a moment to recover. He wasn't about to answer _that_ question truthfully either. "Same thing you are," he finally hedged.

"I think its normal for you to have issues with killing something that looked just like you."

The truth was, while it had been odd looking down at his face on a dead body, he'd had more trouble looking at the blood and bruises on Sam's.

He didn't tell his brother this, of course. "I think 'normal' is a word you should just wipe from your vocabulary. It has nothing to do with us."

Sam nodded slowly. "It's overrated, anyway," he said softly.

The silence that followed was strained. Dean knew he had to say something, try to fix this somehow, but he really had no idea how to handle it. Finally he just decided to wing it, and began, "Look, Sam…"

But Sam had other ideas. "Dean—I always knew the difference between you and the monster, all right? You don't have to say anything. It wasn't you."

Sam talked a good game; looked earnest enough. But Dean knew him too well. He was unsettled. He knew good and well that the shapeshifter had been using Dean's memories; Dean's buried thoughts.

So, much as he would have loved to drop the subject and never uncover it again, he didn't. "Look, maybe it did have access to a lot of my feelings. But it was twisting everything. Look at how the thing operated! It found a person to copy, and downloaded enough to feel his emotions for someone he loved. Then it went and tortured that person. I may not have had a college psych course, but I know screwed up when I see it. It didn't know how to love, but it did know how to hurt. It wanted to hurt its victims, and it wanted them to believe it was the person they loved doing the hurting."

"And that's what it was doing with me," Sam said slowly. "Are you saying it isn't true?"

"Sammy—" he started, then paused, shaking his head. When Sam didn't even comment on the nickname, he knew he wasn't going to get out of it so easily. "Look…I can't say that it was all a lie. But it was blown out of proportion."

He waited out the silence that followed, angling his head in an attempt to see past the shadows on Sam's face. Finally, quietly, Sam said, "It's all right."

Dean's eyebrows knitted in confusion.

Sam's voice was still impossibly soft. "I am sorry for leaving. If you do resent me—I'd understand. It's all right."

"No, it's not," he responded with conviction. He couldn't look Sam in the eye and tell him that he hadn't felt that way. But he also couldn't honestly deny how protective he felt towards his little brother, and how happy he was to have him around again.

He didn't say any of this, of course. He settled for an honest, "I don't want to."

Sam studied him for a long moment, then gave him a slight nod. "I won't leave again. I promise."

The words were of more comfort than Dean could have imagined, and they were heartfelt. It was the almost desperate way Sam had said them that caused him to frown slightly, wondering if there was something more his little brother wasn't telling him. But in the end, he just nodded, and said simply, "Okay."

Their eyes met, and Sam gave him a little grin. Dean rolled his eyes, but couldn't help returning it.

It was enough for now.

They sat in a much less strained silence for a bit. Neither commented about why they both seemed to prefer the hard floor to returning to the warmth of their beds.

And as he sat, it occurred to Dean that maybe this was what he'd been having so much trouble with. On some level, Sam's act hadn't fooled him. He had sensed that he'd hurt Sam in some way—not the shapeshifter, but _him_. Why that had to translate into such violent dreams, he didn't know.

Psychology sucked.

Some time later, Sam broke the silence by musing, "You know, I think you just said you loved me."

Dean cast him a doubtful look. He scoffed, "Did not."

"Did so."

He thought back over what he'd said. Okay, yeah, maybe in a roundabout way…but he wasn't about to admit that. He just glared at Sam.

"What, you don't love me?"

Dean noted the slight smirk on Sam's non-existent poker face, and narrowed his eyes. Normally, teasing like that would have been worth a tackle or at least a punch in the shoulder. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to do anything to his brother that even resembled violence.

He hoped that inclination would go away soon. That was how he showed his affection for Sam. It wasn't as if he could suddenly start hugging him every time he turned around; Sam would probably find that cause to worry about another shapeshifter.

Still, punishment of some sort was in order. He reached over and pinched his brother's side. Sam promptly squirmed away, but Dean was rewarded with a rather childish squeal.

With a slightly evil smirk of his own, he attacked. Sam made a half-hearted attempt to escape before he was pinned once more, giggling helplessly as Dean tickled his sides. It might have been quite a while since he'd done this, but Dean figured ticklish spots were something a big brother should never forget.

He hadn't heard pure laughter from his brother in a very long time. It was an uplifting sound, one that had never failed to brighten his mood a bit and grant him at least a kernel of hope.

He backed off at the first sign that Sam was having trouble breathing again. That was one sound he'd had more than enough of. He pushed himself back and leaned against the bed once more.

Sam struggled up and resettled beside him, absently rubbing at his sides to counter the leftover sensations. "Asshole."

Dean cast him a sideways glance. "Bitch."

Sam's lips quirked. There was a moment of silence. Then, "I love you too, jerk."

oOo


End file.
